


The King's Roads

by austenfan1990



Series: To Love and to Part [2]
Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 22:56:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5023810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/austenfan1990/pseuds/austenfan1990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>'Whereas the drawing room at Soho Square had once been the setting of a joyous reunion upon Jonathan Strange’s return from the Peninsula, it was presently an impromptu battleground upon his return from a place closer to home: Shoreditch.'</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King's Roads

Whereas the drawing room at Soho Square had once been the setting of a joyous reunion upon Jonathan Strange’s return from the Peninsula, it was presently an impromptu battleground upon his return from a place closer to home: Shoreditch. The belligerents were none other than himself and his wife while Major Grant, Colonel De Lancey and Mary found themselves in the unenviable position of being bystanders.

Jonathan had been the one who had initiated hostilities. First there was his distracted, nonchalant attitude (it only occurred to him later that Grant had called him a blockhead upon his entering the room), second was his disregard of Arabella’s fears and finally came the declaration that _she_ had been the one who persuaded him to take up magic and that it was no use to declare that she did not like it.

To him, it seemed perfectly sound. After all, he was Second Magician in the land no less and surely the only course was to accept whatever his occupation entailed, for better or worse.

It was not welcomed by his wife. The shock and then outrage upon Arabella’s face was clearly evident but she rallied, backed by the considerable armies of rationality and good sense. Jonathan was put off-balance – Arabella alone possessed the ability to fluster him, both in love _and_ in war – and in his excitement, he became careless. Magician-in-Ordinary to the Army he had been, a great tactician like the Duke of Wellington, he was not. He fired shot after shot, each becoming wider and more off the mark until he had not only made a fool but also a boor of himself. The final touch was a sarcastic attempt at a toast and that sealed his fate.

Undisguised disgust came over Arabella’s features and although he had no conception of it until much later, it had pained him greatly.

‘Damn magic to hell,’ she spat. ‘Damn where it’s led us!’

Like fury personified, she swept from the room, Mary following close behind. Grant and De Lancey took their leave soon afterwards and Jonathan alone remained standing.

However he felt anything but victorious. Arabella’s denunciation of magic had more than chipped away at his confidence and regret began to seep into his consciousness. A terrible sense of loneliness followed. A gulf yawned between them; suddenly both he and his wife were no further apart with the Channel between them than they were now in the same house. His elation upon discovering the King’s Roads and Drawlight’s schemes seemed now a distant memory, the taste bitter in his mouth.

Jonathan poured himself another glass of port in the hopes of removing it. He drained his glass but with considerably less brio than he had before. Finding his mood unchanged, he set it aside.

Somewhere in the depths of the house, a clock struck the hour: eleven. His thoughts turned to their bedchamber upstairs, a place of both refuge and conjugal bliss. That he should ever dread ascending those stairs and joining his wife there had seemed impossible until now. Despite the lateness of the hour, he desired nothing more than to go out into the streets again. Even the prospect of returning to Shoreditch – godforsaken spot that it was – appeared quite inviting.

The streets however had the disadvantage of being dark and cold. To be subject to his wife’s wrath was certainly not agreeable but it was infinitely preferable to being frozen to the bone in some far-flung corner of the city.

His eyes fell upon the chaise longue. It did not look remotely comfortable or conducive to a good night’s sleep but then again, he had spent the night in far less comfortable surroundings in the Penin –

Jonathan caught himself in time. He cringed and frowned.

Removing his frock coat, he threw himself gloomily upon the chaise longue and waited for sleep to take hold of him. After half an hour’s tossing and turning in which he only succeeded in crumpling his shirt and waistcoat and making a greater mess of his dark curls, he sat up and finally conceded defeat.

* * *

As slumber had eluded Jonathan, so had it too with Arabella. Although his tread was light upon the floorboards, it failed to escape her notice. In some abstraction, she wondered at Jonathan’s gall to come upstairs in light of his recent behaviour. Never in her life had she been so angry with him or indeed with anyone. There had been a dreadful moment indeed – and its recollection upset her – where she had been much tempted to box him about the ears, especially when he had raised his glass to her.

Arabella would, of course, have never raised her hand to hurt him for she loved him too well in spite of how infuriating he could be at times. Nothing could touch Jonathan without touching her and if she ever found herself, God forbid, striking him, she would have felt the pain as keenly as he did.

Although she possessed a forcefulness in her character uncommon in ladies of her station or indeed, her age, Arabella took no pleasure in quarrelling with her husband. Rows were thankfully few and far between but each of them, when they came, left her feeling drained and ill at ease. They appeared to have a similar effect on Jonathan as he was often found in unusually low spirits in the days which followed. Although he was relatively quick in realising the error of his judgment, apologies were a different matter entirely. Days would pass and once he had summoned enough courage to speak to her, he would become quite engrossed in explaining himself and his conduct without actually coming to the point: that he was sorry.

It was fortunate for Jonathan Strange then that his wife possessed great reserves of forbearance. Although spirited, Arabella did not allow her feelings to get the better of her – one could not when both one’s brother and father were men of the cloth – and reason always found its way in the end. By the time Jonathan even began to entertain thoughts of reconciliation, they were in _her_ mind already reconciled – her anger having subsided, her husband forgiven.

But at present, she was not quite master of her feelings yet to consider anything. Therefore, just as her husband entered the room, candlestick in hand, she rolled onto her side.

She heard him pause on the threshold and felt his gaze upon her back as if he was contemplating his next course of action: should he advance or retreat?

‘Bell?’

She heard the hesitation and uncertainty in his voice: such a contrast from the tone he had adopted downstairs! One drawback of her current position was that she could not see his face and the expression upon it but turning about would have been most awkward. Besides, the only source of light at present was his solitary candlestick – she had blown out all the candles in the room upon retiring – and she doubted she would be able to see much regardless.

Arabella remained as she was, silent and unmoving.

Jonathan sighed but did not leave. She felt the bed shift as he sank heavily upon his side of the mattress. There was the _clunk_ of his shoes being deposited on the floor, followed by the rustling of clothing.

He slid beneath the covers. Although she could not see him, Arabella had the distinct notion that Jonathan was staring at her, his mouth working nervously whenever he was distressed. Suddenly she felt him lean over, close enough to feel his warmth radiating across her upper back but not his touch.

He lingered there for some time but then appeared to think the better of it and withdrew. It was only then that Arabella released the breath she did not know she had been holding.

Jonathan blew out the candle and the room was enveloped in darkness once more.

* * *

They passed a fitful night, each making a point of occupying opposite sides of the bed. Thus when they awoke the next morning, it was with a sense of mutual confusion and embarrassment. Jonathan woke with his arm about his wife’s waist as was his custom and Arabella was pained when she saw that her husband had slept in his clothes, his nightshirt forgotten and draped over the chair in the corner of the room.

Their eyes met briefly. Arabella saw the dismay in his eyes but before she was able to say a word, Jonathan had removed his arm and then himself from the room, leaving her to tend to her toilette. Had it been another morning but this, Jonathan would have leapt at the opportunity to usurp Mary’s place in helping with her mistress’ dress. Now he appeared positively desperate to escape her presence and though Arabella attempted to deny it, this had hurt her to no little degree.

Upon entering the drawing room, she saw that the table had been laid out for breakfast. Jonathan was already seated, having changed his shirt and waistcoat, demolished three hard-boiled eggs and gone through two cups of tea. Arabella had only taken her place when her husband shot to his feet, indicating a letter he had received from Mr Norrell on the subject of Drawlight and announcing that he was to call at Hanover Square later in the week. In his agitation and perhaps without realising he was doing so, he began to pace on the spot.

Already on edge, she snapped with more force than she intended, ‘For Heaven’s sake, Jonathan, can you not sit still for one moment? You will wear both our nerves out!’

Jonathan looked stricken and for some moments said nothing.

Then he said coolly, ‘I think I shall retire to my study. There at least I hope to avoid wearing _one_ of us out.’

She watched him leave with no little sense of exasperation and, to a certain extent, regret. When she had entered the room, she had been determined to set things aright as much as she could. But his behaviour this morning – if it was indeed possible – vexed her more than what had occurred between them the previous evening. It had now reached childish proportions. Arabella wondered whether they would be spending days on end endeavouring to avoid each other whilst also living under the same roof.

It was quite preposterous and yet, she added with a sigh, it was so very _Jonathan_.

* * *

Such an arrangement continued for three days and was conducted in the manner which Arabella had foreseen; Jonathan spent most of his time in his study, only coming down at mealtimes while she remained below, tending to her domestic duties which thankfully encompassed a great many things. It was therefore almost a relief when Jonathan left the house to keep his appointment with Mr Norrell in Hanover Square.

He returned an hour later, much earlier than anyone had anticipated, and with a book under his arm. He ascended the stairs and upon reaching the first landing, found his wife standing before him.

‘Bell,’ he said once he had found his voice and he looked at her as if seeing her for the very first time. Indeed it was the first time since their quarrel that he had looked her straight in the eye, his gaze clear and unwavering.

‘Jonathan.’

Her tone was cooler than he would have liked but he comforted himself with the thought that she had at least not turned around or pushed her way past him.

Arabella saw his mouth working in agitation and she waited as he fumbled for words.

‘I would very much like to have some tea,’ he said at last.

There was a short silence. Then:

‘Very well. I shall ask Mary to have some brought up to you.’

‘No!’ he exclaimed with feeling and then hastily recollected himself.

‘No?’ she replied, her brows raised. ‘Am I to take it then that you do not want any tea, Jonathan?’

‘No…yes. I mean to say that I would like to have some, Bell. But I would very much like you to bring it…if you would be so kind.’

Within a quarter of an hour, Jonathan found himself in his study with his tea but not, as he had hoped, with his wife. Truth be told, it was in fact the latter which he had really wanted. He had desired to speak to her, to relate to her on what had passed at Hanover Square and the decision he had come to.

When he had announced to the gentlemen in Norrell’s library that he was going home, Jonathan had not meant Soho Square. Home was wherever Arabella was.

The past three days were ones which he fervently hoped never to repeat again. But they had given him time to reflect upon their lives and that, he admitted, was always something. Knowing how much Arabella missed the country and how she had borne London for his sake, he was now determined to wash his hands of practical magic once and for all. Magic was not worth this rift between them and the sooner they returned to Ashfair the better. There he would at last prove himself the good husband he had vowed to be on their wedding day.

All this Jonathan had hoped to convey when he heard her step on the stair and entered the room. Once she had deposited the tea things upon his desk, he laid a gentle hand upon her arm, a silent entreaty for her to stay.

His hopes were raised when she turned towards him; the expression on her face was gentle, even tender, evidently softened by his touch.

‘Arabella, I am –’ he began, only to be interrupted by Mary coming up the stairs. A man was at the door begging to see Mr Strange, apparently on the behalf of his young ward who had been persuaded to part with a considerable sum of money in exchange for lessons in magic. He was quite insistent and would not leave until he had spoken to the master of the house. No doubt this was another one of Drawlight’s schemes, one of many perhaps that Jonathan had yet to uncover.

Jonathan looked down at his wife to meet her expectant gaze. It did not take a fool to realise that the moment had been lost.

‘Tell Mr Gregson that I shall be with him presently, Mary,’ he said. She curtsied and made her leave.

With a last parting look at his wife, he descended the stairs, murmuring the very same words which had not long ago cut him to the quick, ‘Damn magic to hell.’

* * *

The next morning and immediately after breakfast, Jonathan installed himself at the table in the drawing room. This being a departure from his customary habits, Arabella had not expected to see him upon entering it.

He looked up from his work as she came in. Instinctively, she adopted a look of cool indifference but found that her heart was not in it: she had by now grown weary of this absurd state of affairs. She retreated to her usual chair by the fire.

Moments passed. Arabella endeavoured to turn her attention to the morning’s post which she had brought with her but found that she could not concentrate, especially with Jonathan seated behind her. After his return from Hanover Square, she had sensed that Jonathan had something of import to convey to her. This view had been strengthened when she had felt his hand upon her arm and despite herself, she had melted a little at his touch. Indeed, Arabella had no doubt she would have let him speak his mind without complaint…had it not been for the sudden arrival of Mr Gregson. Afterwards, a similar opportunity had failed to present itself and what he had intended to say was left unsaid.

After some reflection on how she could broach the subject, she gathered her thoughts.

But before she could say anything, Jonathan had already spoken. His words fell quickly from his lips as if afraid that his courage would fail him:

‘I am sorry for the concern I gave you, Bell. I’m sorry for the things I said. I’m sorry – for any sadness my occupation has caused.’

Arabella could not help looking surprised – and feeling a little guilty. She had entertained a vague hope of some sort of apology but she had not expected nor desired _three_ in one breath. It was truly a case of coming not in single spies but battalions _._

She glanced at him and saw that he was watching her with some intensity, evidently gauging her response. He looked quite forlorn and her heart went out to him.

She said with genuine feeling: ‘Well, as you said, it was I who suggested you get it in the first place.’

‘You were not specific.’

‘I had in mind, in fact, that you might become a justice of the peace,’ Arabella found herself replying. ‘Or a landscape gardener.’

The small smile which tugged at the corners of his mouth at this latter comment encouraged her to speak frankly and to reveal something she had not realised herself until very recently: ‘I did not consider that you might become one of the greatest men of the age.’

Their gazes met. His face brightened with his usual good humour and he said drily, ‘It has surprised me somewhat too.’

Arabella turned to hide her smile lest it should transform itself into laughter – or even tears of joy. There at last was her Jonathan of old and whose absence she had felt so keenly. Almost at once she felt the burden of the past week dissipate into thin air and she was glad of it.

Having thus been reconciled with his wife, Jonathan pushed the book he had been perusing across the table. Arabella recognised it as the one he had held under his arm the previous afternoon and she had no doubt who had written it.

‘It is published. You were right.’

Taking up the volume in her hands, she asked in some bemusement, ‘If it’s published, then what are you doing?’

‘I’m writing a review of it.’

‘You cannot review a book that you helped to write.’

‘I believe I could,’ replied Jonathan levelly. ‘If I were to say it is an abominable book.’

She looked up, unable to believe her ears. ‘Jonathan…’

‘If I say it is a fraud,’ he continued, his tone unchanged.

‘You’re not in earnest!’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you leave yourself open to…’ She paused and although she did not hold Mr Norrell in very high regard, her thoughts turned to him in her desperation.

‘What would Norrell say? You cannot publish it!’

‘I fear I must.’ Jonathan’s features were grimly set and Arabella knew better than to argue further. She would be foolish indeed to start a quarrel when they had only resolved another!

Then he surprised her for the second time that morning.

‘Then you and I will go home,’ he pronounced with a smile which took her breath away. ‘What do you say?’

**Author's Note:**

> The scene between Jonathan and Arabella in the last section is, of course, drawn entirely from Peter Harness' wonderful, wonderful screenplay(s) (and which was played beautifully by Bertie Carvel and Charlotte Riley) and recreated here with some creative license on my part. The rest is, I am sorry to say, entirely my own doing.


End file.
